


Like this?

by Ladyfeets



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Greaser!lock, M/M, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-07-05 00:43:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15852762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladyfeets/pseuds/Ladyfeets
Summary: Teen Greaser Sherlock teaches John how to dance.





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock blinks the sweat from his eyes. It’s a warm night. He’s on his back underneath his baby - a ‘41 Lincoln Zephyr lovingly reconstructed the previous summer. Cobalt blue. Girlie if you ask his Pop, but just the tone of John Watson's eyes if you ask Sherlock.

John's perched atop the mini-fridge. It’s packed with Schlitz and soda pop, maybe later they’ll sneak a beer and whisper and giggle into the sultry night.

Sherlock strips the fourth bolt on his oil panel but bites back a curse; the other three are between his lips for safekeeping.

"I'm thinking of asking Mary to homecoming", John mentions with a studied casual tone.

Sherlock is glad the running board (chrome edged with Studebaker mats) on the Zeph covers his expression. His face falls slack before his eyebrows knit together.

“Do you even know how to dance?”, he garbles indignantly through a mouthful of metal.

John chuckles in his good-natured way. “Not a step. I just think, y'know, we get along okay and no one's asked her yet…”

Sherlock slides out on the skateboard he uses as a creeper. He wipes his hands on his jeans and spits the bolts into his hand, then drops them in a coffee can next to the front tire (whitewall with custom-installed curb feelers). Rising, he kicks the skateboard back under the car and crosses to the small sink by the fridge. Not meeting John’s eyes, he scoops a healthy glob of orange pumice cleaner from the open tub and starts scrubbing under his nails.

“I could um... I could teach you. Had to do cotillion at St. Stephen's” The words are out of Sherlock’s mouth before he thinks them, popping like a soap bubble into the humid garage. He finally flicks his eyes up to John. Sitting on the fridge he’s a head higher than Sherlock standing, so the taller boy has the experience of looking up at him, gazing through dark lashes. Sherlock suddenly feels coy and discombobulated, heat rising in his cheeks.

John licks his lips and gives him that half-smile, that one that makes Sherlock’s heart feel like it's trying to squeeze between his ribs and fly out of his chest. Wordlessly, John hops down from his perch and flicks on the wireless on the workbench.

_“...and here’s a new one from the Platters. Don’t touch that dial!”_

“Yeah, come 'ere.” John beckoned. “Where do I put my hands?”

 _Only you_ , the radio sang.

Sherlock swallowed slowly and approached his willing pupil. “I'll lead, first, to show you how” he managed, “ and then we'll switch. So put your left hand on my arm or shoulder”

John opted for the latter. His thumb barely brushed Sherlock's collarbone, sending pinpricks up his neck to his hairline. “Like this?” he asked, blue eyes twinkling.

_Only you, and you alone can thrill me like you do_

“And your right - “ Sherlock continued, extending his left arm at a perfect obtuse angle.

“Like this?” John pressed his palm against Sherlock’s, then curled his fingers in a gentle, natural clasp.

_And fill my heart with love for only you_

Sherlock led John in a simple box step. “Once you see her pupils dilate, you may want to pull her in closer.” He gently tightened his arm around John's waist til they were flush together.

Sherlock cleared his throat, but the words came out more gravelly than intended - “And she might... Rest her head on your shoulder.”

“Like this?” John tucked his head against Sherlock’s collar, nose brushing neck. _Yes, just like that_.

They swayed together until the song ended.

“Then what?” John's cornflower blue eyes were wide as they looked up at Sherlock. He had a black smudge of grease on his cheek from Sherlock's t-shirt.

“Then... She might want you to kiss her.”

“Like this?” John tilted his face up and curled his hand around Sherlock's neck.

“Yes”, he rasped. “Like this.”

And then John's mouth was covering his, soft, so soft,

_You're my dream come true, my one and only you._


	2. Can I?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOT a continuation of. the previous story, but y’all seem to like Greaserlock so I’ll keep it comin’! This one has motorcycles. Set around 1952, London café racers.

“Goddamn this piece of shit!” Sherlock spat, kicking the kerb.

“Oi that’s not a piece of shit, mate. That’s a Royal Enfield.” 

He looked over to see a short but burly man pulling off his gloves coming toward him. He had some 3-in-1 oil and two screwdrivers tucked under his arm. Behind him was an olive green Norton Jubilee.

“An Indian-made slag heap with a sheared rear axle.” Sherlock growled.

The man squatted down beside him, as if he could possibly see something Sherlock couldn’t.

“Can I give you some help?”, the man asked, frowning at the wheel.

“No, unless you have a spare rear axle laying in your pocket Mr...”

“Doctor. Sorry. Watson. John Watson”, the man offered his hand, along with a cheeky grin and oh God in heaven, had he ever seen eyes that blue?

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes”, he managed, “I live over on Montague Street.”

The man stood up, cracked his back and looked around.

“Err... can I give you a lift then?”

“I suppose... I’m just over on Montague Street.”

“You said that, posh boy. Montague and what?” Dr. Watson said, pulling his gloves back on.

“I’m renting a room at the Bedford Estates”

The man let out a low whistle. “Posh boy indeed.” he said, looking Sherlock up and down. He strapped on a Brodie helmet and tucked the oil and tools back into his saddlebags.

Sherlock put on his own helmet, swung a leg over this strange little bike and tucked in behind this strange little man.

“Have to put my knees in my ears on this thing.”, he grumbled while he looped his fingers in Dr. Watson’s belt.

“She’s small, but she can accelerate in a pinch. Pull your thighs in tight.” He demonstrated such and they were at Bedford far too soon.

Sherlock dismounted as gracefully as possible and was surprised that Dr. Watson hopped off the bike as well.

“Much obliged, Dr. Watson.” he said with an awkward bow.

“You’ll need to pick it up in the morning, I know a fella with a lorry. Can I give you my telephone number?”

“I suppose. I would... be thankful for the help.”

“One more thing...”

“What more could you possibly want to give me, Dr. Watson?”

“John”

“Alright then. I’m Sherlock.”

“Can I give you a kiss?”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open a bit and John took that for all the invitation he needed. He wrapped his left arm, still holding his helmet, around Sherlock’s back and twined the other hand into his curls. He liked being held, he realized, tight like this. He’d never been kissed before, except by Mummy and that hateful lieutenant. He was caught up in the slide of lips and tongues then suddenly Dr. Watson was pulling away.

“Better let you get back”, he said, eyes twinkling and dancing enough to make Sherlock dizzy. “I’d like to see you again.”

Sherlock dusted his jacket off and composed himself.

“Maybe tomorrow, with your friend and the lorry?” Sherlock smiled in the way he knew made his dimple pop out.

“It’s a date.”

Dr. Watson strode toward his motorcycle then looked over his shoulder.

“I just got her today. Supposed to give it a girl’s name, but I sort of want to name her after you.”

 

“Sherlock is a girl’s name” he blurted out.


End file.
